


light me up like a cigarette (just let me burn)

by Notebook



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Cigarettes, Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Smoking, pls dont hate me, slightly asthmatic hanzo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 02:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8603266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notebook/pseuds/Notebook
Summary: Jesse McCree wants nothing but to get to know the elusive Hanzo Shimada. However, the constant cigarette smoking leaves to Hanzo being more elusive than ever, mostly due to the fact that he can't stand too near McCree without his chest tightening uncomfortably.
So Jesse considers alternatives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have never ever written a fic for overwatch so please don't be too brutal with me!!!! i am also very slow to update, due to working two jobs, so i apologise in advance!!!!

Jesse McCree remembers the first time he tried to quit smoking.

Perhaps he attempted it too early in his life, when he was still surrounded by all the wrong people, at the wrong time. Christ, he’d barely been in his teens when he joined up with Deadlock, smoking by the age of… fifteen, was it?

_Shit._

A year of trying to give that up and failing again and again, surrounded constantly by that addictive scent of nicotine smoke, his mama’s voice in the back of his mind, the coughs of those around him, thick and watery.

But shit, the smell would just linger. Stick to clothes and skin, linger in the shitty rooms they slept in, keeping him awake at night as his throat _itched_. And so, he’d fail again. And again. Until he decided, it just wasn’t worth the stress it put him under.

He sighs to himself. Over twenty years of smoking, one after the other until the smell clung to his hair, his skin, his sheets. Jesse no longer resided within the Deadlock gang, had moved on from that long ago. Had gone through Blackwatch, into Overwatch, had seen Overwatch split and reform in his time, and still, he smoked like a train.

And that was fine with him. Occasionally, he’d hesitate to light, hearing the voice of his mama somewhere in the back of his thoughts, warning his younger self. But that was fine.

Well, until he met Hanzo Shimada.

What a _mighty fine_ man.

Jesse of course, had stood up to introduce himself, reached out with one hand to shake the hand of someone he _knew_ he wanted to impress, lit cigarette held between the fingers of the other.

And Hanzo?

His nose had wrinkled, and his cheeks swelled momentarily as he withheld a coughing fit. He turned away, and left, gliding down the very hallway he’d came, and Jesse had been left standing confused, and slightly insulted.

Genji had explained later.

Turned out, his older brother had troubles with breathing at a younger age. Slight asthma, nothing serious, and it had lessened with age. But the smell of cigarettes had always been quick to set him off.

Jesse had turned a violent shade of red. He finds a man who is simply _angelic_ , and, in his own words, _“the guy’s practically fuckin’ allergic to him.”_

He gets sick of Hanzo avoiding him like the plague each time he needs to smoke, gets sick of being avoided in general. Gets sick of catching glances of him in the halls, get sick of seeing dragons out of the corner of his eye during a fight, and gets sick of the feeling of being watched from afar.

And so, here he is.

Sitting on the edge of a balcony, legs between the railing bars and dangling dangerously over the edge. He contemplates the pack of Marlboro’s in his hand, missing only three cigarettes. He exhales loudly, and as someone coughs to announce their presence, he fumbles with the packet in his shock.

“Tracer is looking for you.”

Of course it’d be Hanzo. Jesse turns his head to the side, offers a sly grin.

“Ah, Lena. She always knows right when I’m in the middle a’ somethin’ important.”

“And what might that be, exactly?” The elder Shimada arches an eyebrow, and Jesse feels himself _sweat._

“Well, uh, thinkin’ over life choices,” He says, ignoring the burn in his cheeks and the tips of his ears, “And how they affect others.”

The other man hums in some form of understanding, and his gaze lowers to the pack in Jesse’s hand. Jesse is quick to hide it away, tugging it back into his shirt pocket red-faced and jittery, like a child caught stealing. He’s never been of embarrassed of his habits prior to Hanzo’s arrival, but now, he feels almost ashamed.

“Well,” Hanzo murmurs, “Please see to Lena soon. She’s pacing, and it’s getting obnoxious.”

Jesse barks out a short laugh at his blunt honesty, and his heart flutters at the slightest twitch at the corners of Hanzo’s mouth.

“Also,” Hanzo adds on hesitantly, “I apologise for leaving so early in your greeting. I have a… problem. With smoke.”

Jesse notes his unwillingness to admit to having a medical condition, and tips his hat in response to Hanzo’s slightly bowed held.

“Ain’t no thing, darlin’.” He says quietly, daring to be bold and use a nickname.

But Hanzo’s back stiffens at the nickname, and he is quick to mutter his words.

“I must be going now. Don’t make Lena wait any longer, cowboy.”

He turns to walk away and Jesse calls to him, realizing he never gave his name.

“I’m uh, I’m Jesse McCree, by the way.”

“I am aware.”

Jesse frowns, and then it strikes him. Lena would have told him, of course. Great, he fucks up his first introduction, and then he can’t even properly do it himself. He watches Hanzo leave, quiet as the wind, back straight, inky black ponytail swaying with each step.

He turns his head away. He refuses to let himself fall to pieces over someone like this. He pulls the cigarette packet from his shirt, and stares at the block lettering on the front, tracing them with metal fingers. He sighs loudly, and plucks one loose, resting it between his teeth. He fiddles with the zippo, turning it over in his hands again and again.

He lights the cigarette, pockets the zippo, and inhales. The nicotine seems to soothe the ache in his chest, relax his muscles, and also his mind. He holds the smoke in his lungs and exhales through his nose, ignoring the burn that always follows.

But it just doesn’t seem as satisfying. His mind still runs a mile a minute, and his cheeks still burn from Hanzo’s quick rejection of the nickname, usual confidence crashing to the ground hard and fast.

He tosses the cigarette over the railing, watches it tumble over the edge of a cliff, sparks pin-wheeling away. _Only half-smoked,_ he ponders, _a fuckin’ waste, but it wasn’t doin’ anything for me._

He sighs, rubs a hand over weary eyes, and moves to stand, the joints in his knees protesting with loud cracks and pops.

“Getting old there, love?”

“Fuck!” He startles, spins around to meet Lena’s grinning face, and scowls at her.

“What is it with people sneakin’ up on others huh?” He can’t stay mad at her though and meets her grin with his own, “Gonna put me in an early grave.”

“Wouldn’t be that early, love,” Lena teases, receiving an eye-roll, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

“So I’ve heard.” Jesse murmurs, stomach tying itself in knots all over again. Shit, maybe he shouldn’t have thrown away that damn cigarette. Lena raises an eyebrow, and is at Jesses side with a blink.

“What’s on your mind?”

“I’ve ah…” He hesitates, not wanting to tell her of his recent stupid infatuation, “Been thinkin’ ‘bout quitting.” He says instead, gesturing to the packet still gripped tightly in one hand.

“Oh!” Lena says, her eyes lighting up, “That’s great, Jess! Mercy would probably be able to give you a doctor’s perspective on that! You should talk to her!”

“Now hold on,” He grumbles, voice gruff, “I said I was thinkin’, not that I’d decided!”

Lena seems to miss this detail, babbling a mile a minute about patches and gums that exist that might help him out with this.

Jesse groans, tightening the grip he has on the packaging. Draws another smoke, slightly squished, lights it, and inhales deeply.

“Hey!” Lena says with a fold of her arms, “I thought you were supposed to be quitting!”

“I am,” He says with a roll of his eyes, “Ain’t goin’ cold turkey yet though, tried that when I was a youngin. ‘S shit.”

“Got you to admit that you’re quitting,” Lena says, pointing finger guns at him, “I win.”

She’s gone in a blink of an eye, and Jesse sighs.

He takes another draw, and leans forward against the railing. He watches the smoke fade away in curlicues, and thinks of black locks swaying with each step.

God _damn_ it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena sees everything, and apparently there's no such thing as privacy anymore, because Genji hears everything.

Lena accompanies Jesse to see Angela one early morning, doing most of the talking for him while Jesse adds input occasionally. Despite her being younger than him, it reminds Jesse of a mother and a shy child. It doesn’t bother him, and he lets Lena babble while he listens to Angela’s suggestions of patches and gum to ease the difficulties of coping with nicotine withdrawals.

“It may be difficult,” she adds gently, “The gum can be addicting to some, but the patches often make people feel quite nauseas. Often people are prone to pick up other addictions after quitting smoking. But, do let me know if you would like to-”

“I’ll take anything.” Jesse blurts out. He’s getting desperate. He smoked only four times yesterday, six times the day before, still far less than his usual, and he’s been so damn irritable. He doesn’t want to find out which is worse, Hanzo avoiding him because of his smoking, or because of his godawful behaviour.

Angela startles, blinking at the sudden interruption, but nods, smiles and gestures for Jesse to wait.

Lena praises him for taking such a leap, and he smiles at her.

“What prompted this anyway?” She questions and his smile falters.

“Uh,” he stumbles and he can feel his face turning pink already, “Well-”

“Oh gosh,” Lena’s eyes grow wide and she presses her hands to her face in surprise, “Love, I know that look.”

“I’m real sure ya’ don’t,” Jesse blurts hastily, “Lena, don’t-”

“ _Jesse_ ,” She stage whispers to him, “You had that same look months back when you-”

He doesn’t want to hear this goddamn embarrassing story. Drunk Jesse McCree, flirting shamelessly with a bartender of a place that he visited frequently before Overwatch was back online, only to be harshly rejected and to mope home to video call Lena and drunkenly complain about men.

She had never told anybody, bless her, yet she always seemed to bring it up at the worst of times.

“Lena, stop-”

“Jesse McCree, is this about a _boy?_ ”

“He ain’t a boy, that’s for damn sure,” He hisses out, red in the face, “Now shut yer yap!”

Lena almost dies.

Collapses in a fit of laughter, hand over her chest as she dissolves into giggles. Jesse can’t help his embarrassment from furthering, and shrinks into himself as Lena laughs. He’s too damn old for this shit. Luckily, Lena recovers herself before Angela returns, handing Jesse a paper bag with a box of patches and a box of gum. She demands that he come see her if he has any negative side effects, and he nods, thanks her and leaves with Lena on his tail.

“So who’s the lucky man, love?”

“None of ya damn business.”

“Interesting name there,” Lena coos, “Sounds foreign.”

That causes a stumble in Jesse’s stride, which of course, Lena notices immediately.

“Jesse,” she grabs at his forearm and stops him in the hallway, “Who-”

“Pardon me, but you’re both blocking the hall.”

Jesse stiffens, and of _course_ it’s Hanzo _fuckin’_ Shimada behind them, of _course_ it is. There’s a moment of silence, as Lena’s gaze snaps from his face to Hanzo’s. He doesn’t trust his voice, and ducks his head to hide embarrassed cheeks because Lena ‘Tracer’ Oxton doesn’t miss a god damn thing.

“Terribly sorry, love! We were just discussing the best method for Jesse to quit smoking!” She says with a wide grin, a hands on her hips. Hanzo raises a brow.

“Is that so?”

“It sure is so! Isn’t that right, Jess?”

He _hates_ being called Jess, but he always let Lena slide with that one.

“Yep, I uh, always tried to quit but never found the, uh, motivation when I was younger.”

“I see,” Hanzo murmurs, “What motivation have you found now?”

_Uh._

_Fuck._

“Mercy’s been hassling him about his health!”

 _Ay dios mio,_ Jesse thinks to himself with a quiet exhale, _thank you, Lena._

Hanzo nods his understanding, and then murmurs a goodbye as Lena pulls Jesse out of the way of the other man. She turns to Jesse when Hanzo is out of sight, folds her arms and sighs.

“You know, love,” she says with a drawn out sigh, “When Angie said ‘prone to other addictions’, I think she meant things like chewing gum, or pencils, and not archers with dragon tattoos who are-”

“Out of my _damn_ league, I get it Lena, god damn it.” Jesse grumbles to himself, yanking his forearm out of her grip, and receiving an eye-roll in return.

“I was gonna say, ‘emotionally constipated’, actually.”

He snorts at that, and glances at the paper bag in his hand. Lena sighs, disappointment evident.

“Need another smoke already, love?”

“Somethin’ _awful,_ ” He responds, “Might as well try the shit Angela gave me.”

He pulls out the box of nicotine patches, flips it over and skims the instructions.

“Let me know how it goes,” Lena says with a smile, “I’m gonna head off.”

She blinks out of the hallway, blue light filtering to the ground where she used to be. The air seems to tremble slightly, being bent around a non-existent trail. Jesse exhales, remembering Mercy’s warning of nausea.

“Can’t be that bad,” he murmurs to himself, “Might as well.”

\---

Three hours later, and Jesse McCree has acknowledged that he was _dead wrong_ , and it definitely fuckin’ is _that bad_.

He heaves into the communal bathroom toilets, offside to the living area, unable to make it to his own bathroom in time. His head spins and he kneels on the tiles, wiping at his mouth with a heavy sigh.

And he’s supposed to wear this shit for six weeks? How about _no._

_Fuck no._

The bathroom door creaks open, and he attempts to pull himself up from the ground. The dizziness overtakes him once again, and he slumps to the ground, blinking hard to try and stop the spinning of his vision.

“McCree, do you require assistance?”

Just his luck today, ain’t it?

Genji Shimada stands outside of the open cubicle, and Jesse shakes his head. His nostrils burn, his throat burns, and he wants to tear this stupid patch off of his forearm and just fucking-

“McCree?”

Genji interrupts his internal monologue and Jesse shakes his head once more, voicing his opinion this time.

“No, Genji, I don’t need _assistance,_ I need a goddamn cigarette.”

His voice is hoarse, and he just can’t escape this stupid fucking itch in his lungs. His hands ball into fists, fingernails bitten down to the beds in an attempt to distract himself from the desire to smoke over the past couple of days. He wonders if it’s a habit people often get when quitting, considers asking Angela, and then curses Angela out loud for not warning him about exactly how fuckin’ _shit_ the patches were.

“Cigarettes are what got you into this mess, McCree. Not Mercy.”

Well, he supposes Genji’s got him there.

“Genji,” he grunts out, “You’re a real pal, ya’ are, but I’m gonna need you to _piss off.”_

The cyborg only chuckles at him, and remains exactly where he is.

“McCree,” He murmurs, “Does my brother know why you’re quitting?”

“My health.” McCree answers instantly, but groans when he hears Genji chuckle again, “Lena told ya’, didn’t she? Is there no such thing as privacy no more?”

“Not in Overwatch, I’m afraid.”

Jesse groans, and gives in to the itch in his lungs. He tears the patch off of his arm, flushes it down the toilet, stumbles to his feet, and pushes past the laughing cyborg.

He needs another cigarette. It’ll be his eighth, his worst day since he tried to cut down. And it’s not even the afternoon yet. He sighs.

He only hopes Lena won’t be overly angry about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this update is far earlier than i thought it would be, due to one of my jobs being temporarily closed by renovations! thank you all for your kind comments and kudos, and i truly hope you enjoyed this chapter!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo seems to care more than he shows, and Jesse finds insomnia and irritability is a common side-effect, along with the nausea of the patches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please know that i do not have a beta reader for this fic, so mistakes may be made! sorry!!! xx

He smokes more than one more cigarette after ripping the patch off of his skin, making it to eleven for the day. Still less than what he used to smoke, but he knows it’s shit all the same. But lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, he just can’t sleep. He rolls over, checks the time. He wonders if two in the morning counts as a new day for his little cigarette counting, if he should start from zero now, or when he finally gets to sleep. He runs his tongue over chapped lips, tasting the muted spice of tobacco and nicotine pressed there.

How is this shit so _hard?_

He’s not a part of Deadlock anymore, not surrounded by the smell every damn day, tempting him for _just one more_ , not constantly seeing the flare of a match, or hearing that tell-tale click of a lighter.

So why is it still so _goddamn difficult?_

He grunts as he rises out of bed, joints complaining along with him, and reaches for a faded button-up on the ground. He shrugs it on, swipes his lighter from the bedside table, and pockets it as he exits the room, closing the door as quietly as he can. He knows many of the veteran Overwatch soldiers are light sleepers, and doesn’t want to wake them. He knows how terrifying that can be.

Barefoot, shirt undone, and wearing sweatpants so old they probably belong in a museum, he pads out to the kitchen. He doesn’t exactly expect company at two in the morning. Of course though, things haven’t exactly been going well for him lately, and he finds himself desperately wishing he’d changed into something slightly more decent as he makes out the figure of Hanzo Shimada himself.

Hanzo gives him a once over, eyebrow raised, and Jesse feels the shame creeping along his cheeks. Of course he’d be here, of course he’d still be dressed decently, _of fuckin’ course._

“McCree-san.”

He nods in return in the greeting sent his way, cheeks still flaming, but the formality of it stings as he remembers how he referred to Lena by her call-sign, or even simply her name.

“You can call me Jesse,” he bravely says, “It feels odd for you to be so formal towards little ol’ me.”

Hanzo hums in response, directing his attention to a boiling kettle.

“Well, what are you doing up this late, _Jesse?”_ He places emphasis on the name, syllables escaping from his mouth slowly and carefully, his first time using it. Jesse wants to tear apart the butterflies that seem to have formed in his abdomen.

“Uh, craving.” He mutters simply, reaching into his pocket and producing his lighter.

“I was under the belief you were quitting?”

“Yeah well,” He mutters, flicking the lighter open, shut, open again, “Turns out it’s harder than I thought it would be.”

“Even with the help of Mercy?”

“The patches are terrible. They make me feel sick as a dog,” He grumbles, examining the flames, “But without them, I’m…”

He trails off. He’s not quite sure what this feeling is, really. Between the annoying itch at the back of his throat and his irritable behaviour, there’s something else, something low and dull curling in his mind. He runs a hand over the freckled bridge of his nose, and sniffs. Hanzo’s gaze falls onto his hand, and when he follows it he realizes that his fingers have begun to twitch restlessly. He curls his hands into fists to quell the shakes, and runs a tongue over his bottom lip in thought.

“Perhaps,” Hanzo offers, “You would like something to drink?”

“Coffee.” Jesse nods and moves to stand up, but a hand on his shoulder pushes him back down.

“Coffee will not help your insomnia, foolish cowboy.” Jesse feels the flush form at that and ducks his head as Hanzo continues, “And I doubt you will be able to pour the water with shakes such as yours.”

Moments later there’s a steaming cup of tea in front of him, and Jesse raises an eyebrow.

“Ya poisoning me?” He jokes, and his smile grows when he notices the corners of Hanzo’s mouth twitch upwards the slightest.

“Perhaps,” Hanzo says, barely-there smile gracing his sharp features, “Drink.” He pushes it towards Jesse who accepts it graciously.

“Cheers, darlin’.” He drawls and swallows a mouthful. It’s oddly sweet, and the flavours of peppermint seem to momentarily soothe the itch in his throat and the ache in his lungs. He hums his approval, letting his eyes slip shut.

“I gotta hand it to ya-” He begins, but cuts himself off when he opens his eyes, to find the elusive Hanzo Shimada has vanished. The only sign of him ever being there is the tea in Jesse’s hand, and washed cup balanced next to the sink.

Huh.

He wonders if it was the ‘darlin’’ that pushed his luck just an inch too far. He resumes drinking the tea, slowly, the warmth of it allowing fatigue to push through the insomnia that once blanketed him.

If the butterflies that were once in his stomach now sting like wasps, he doesn’t say a word.

\---

Lena scolds him the following morning, counting the cigarettes left in his fifty pack of Marlboro golds. He feels slightly ashamed, embarrassed that he disappointed her, and swears to smack another patch on.

However, he hesitates in his little bathroom, fumbling with the packaging that holds the nicotine patch, remembering the disgusting pit of nausea in his stomach that lay heavy like a ball of lead. But he considers avoiding the cigarettes without them, the odd feeling of something heavy and dull in the back of his mind. He chews on his lip, careful not to break the skin and form an ulcer. The packaging comes away easily, and he sticks the patch just below the reddened skin marked by the previous one.

He exhales, and repacks the box, avoiding looking at the reflection of his tired eyes. God, he looks like _shit._

At nine in the morning, Jesse McCree exits to the balcony for his first cigarette. After he stomps it out, kicks it over the edge, he finds himself holstering the Peacekeeper, and wandering to the training block.

Shooting shit seems to take the edge off of everything, in his most educated opinion.

But… He can’t help but notice that his aim is slightly off, however, not quite hitting the centre. He grows further irritated, reloading and firing off, trying desperately to refocus his usually perfect shots. Irritation grows, turning from annoyance to anger, and from anger to rage.

“Aw, for _fucks_ sake!” He growls, holstering his Peacekeeper and marching forward.

He grips at the wood of the target and pulls towards him and in a downward motion, hard and fast. The top half of the target snaps off, splintering around the middle as it breaks, and he tosses the fragmented half into another target, splintering another as it flies out of his grip.

“You are bleeding, Jesse.”

A voice catches his attention and he whirls around. Hanzo stands straight, regal as ever, witnessing his little temper tantrum. His rage bleeds through to embarrassment, but before he can say a word, Hanzo is gingerly manoeuvring his hand to turn over. He is, in fact, bleeding. As the wood had slipped from his hands, the jagged edging of the broken wood had caught in the calloused palm of his flesh hand. He hadn’t even noticed the large splinter caught in his skin, or the slow ooze of blood flowing from the side of his palm.

And as Jesse snatches his injured hand out of Hanzo’s grip, stomach twisting hard and fast, he knows he’s shit out of luck. The nausea sets in, sudden and harsh.

He leans to the side, and pukes, narrowly missing the archer.

God _dammit._

Just his _fuckin’_ luck.

But Hanzo doesn’t leave. He doesn’t vanish, like the night before, no. In fact, as Jesse falls to his knees, dizzy and retching, he gently combs the hair out of his eyes, tucking strands behind his ears and whispering things that Jesse doesn’t understand, the Japanese falling on deaf ears.

But he can detect the tone of concern. He’s heard that many a time from Hanzo over the comms during battle, after falling silent for a moment too long.

The butterflies replace the leaden wasps in his stomach.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse just wishes people would stop gossiping about him, and that Gabriel Reyes would stop mumbling in the back of his mind.

Hanzo walks with him to see Mercy, his silence oddly comforting as she berates him for not telling her, or even Lena, about how severe the side effects were on him. She is quick to remove the offending lump of wood from his flesh hand, and presses an alcohol pad over the wound. Jesse hisses and curses at the sting, and raises an eyebrow when Hanzo scoffs.

“ _Foolish,”_ He criticizes the cowboy with a roll of his eyes, “Jesse, you have been _shot_ multiple times and have not faltered, and a mere disinfectant of a splinter is what does you in.”

“What can I say,” Jesse smiles weakly, still nauseas, “It stings.”

“And bullets do not?”

Jesse smiles, but doesn’t respond. He remembers days in the Deadlock gang, young and foolish, a gangly teen just attempting to make something of a life in the wrong places. If you were shot, there was no Dr Ziegler. There was no disinfectant for the wound, only scraps of bandages and water to rinse. Infections were common. Jesse grew used to the pain of the shot, the burn of the fever, and the ache of the wound. Disinfectant was a new pain to him, a rare occurrence when he switched to Blackwatch, and then a common one when he switched to Overwatch. He still hasn’t grown quite accustomed to it.

Angela smiles at him, understanding shown behind her blue eyes.

“Disinfectant wasn’t a common factor in Jesse’s past life. He’s still getting used to it.”

“And what past life have you lived, cowboy?”

Mercy raises an eyebrow at the slight tease in the nickname, and Jesse fights back the pink in his cheeks by focusing on the sting of the alcohol pad, the small gauze being placed over the gash.

He doesn’t answer Hanzo, hesitates over his choice of words. He knows what the man himself has done, knows the torment that shrouds him when Genji’s voice comes over comms, metallic and only somewhat human. But he cannot bring himself to answer the question, for fear of judgemental tones and rejection, the loss of whatever friendship has begun to bloom.

He feels selfish, in a way. He knows all there is to know about this man, and Hanzo Shimada knows nothing of him. But there are parts of him he prefers not to mention. Parts involving not only when he ran with the Deadlock, but memories of attempts to draw out information from people, the pain he inflicted. The days in Blackwatch as he watched a man, one whom he once considered a father, turn to nothing but a violent, empty shell, over a grudge with someone who he had once respected, and even loved.  He remembers Gabe demanding him to spar him, that day. Square up, fight him. Again. Again. _Again._

 **“ _El amor es una mentira_ ,** _Jesse,” a gruff voice, muffled from a swollen lip, “Don’t you ever let that shit get you, **mi niño.** ”_

The sting of the disinfectant brings him back to the future, Gabriel Reyes lecturing him in Spanish drifting somewhere to the back of his mind.

“Nothing good, that’s for damn sure.” He murmurs, and Mercy squeezes his shoulder out of sympathy, and he smiles.

“Well, thanks for the patch up darlin’,” He grins at the woman, “Overwatch’s guardian angel-”

He stutters on the final word, a harsh cough tearing through his lungs and up his windpipe, sputtering as he yanks his arm from Angela’s grip, and covered his mouth.

“Jesse, what-”

“S’ nothing, don’t ya worry Ange, just the cold.”

Angela hums in disapproval, but she nods, and Jesse thanked her for her help. Hanzo gave a gracious bow to the woman, and followed Jesse into the halls.

“Your cough does not sound as though it is simply exacerbated by the cold weather.” He ponders aloud, accent clipping some of his words.

“You sound concerned, darlin’.”

“Do _not,”_ Hanzo sniffed, _“_ call me _that_.”

Jesse paused in his stride, frowning.

“I call everyone that-”

“That is my point. You should not refer to all with terms of endearment. It provides false information.”

Jesse snorts, returning to walking.

“What?” He questioned, “You jealous?”

Silence follows, and as Jesse turns to face the elder Shimada, he is met with an empty hallway. Huh. Hanzo Shimada proves once again to be elusive and incredibly-

“Confusing, that one.”

Jesse whips his head around, and sighs aloud at the sight before him. Lena Oxton winks at him, and blinks to his side quickly to elbow him in the ribs. Jesse winces, and rubs at the spot where she prodded him.

“Could ya be any bonier, Lena? Jeez.”

“I think he’s _jealous_ ,” Lena grins, matching his stride and joining him in his walk, “Maybe you should give him some other pet name.”

“I call everyone darlin’, there’s no reason for anybody to be getting’ jealous.” Jesse grumbles. He’s not entirely in the right mood for this conversation, Gabriel Reyes lingering in his thoughts.

“Unless he _likes you!”_

Jesse stumbles in his stride, pink flushing his cheeks and spurs jingling awkwardly as he sputters.

“You know what, missy?” He jabs a finger in Lena’s direction, “You can mind your own damned business!”

Lena simply laughs, bubbly and happy, before blinking away.

“An’ quit gossiping about my love life!” Jesse shouts towards the fading blue light, and shakes his fist.

He almost swears he hears Hana Song giggle from somewhere within the halls. He honestly wouldn’t be surprised if that girl had her own place in the little gossip circle Tracer and Genji seemed to have going.

He pulls the door to his room closed a little harder than was probably necessary.

He rummages through the paper bag stamped with Mercy’s logo, and shakes out the little blue box of nicotine gum. He doesn’t bother with the instructions within the box, tosses them to the side where they land amongst a dirty shirt and last night’s underwear, and pops out the first little square of mint flavoured gum. The taste is oddly peppery, somewhat similar to how nicotine smells, and he chews away, leaning against the window pane.  The gum is too stiff to blow bubbles with, and the peppery taste fades quickly. The mint flavour is poor, and Jesse immediately finds himself wanting to spit it out. But he thinks of Mercy, her worried expression at his chesty coughs, and continues chewing.

By the time sunset rolls around, he’s already gone through half the pack of gum, but he’s smoked about thirteen cigarettes, and the cravings are fucking _awful._ He’s moved to his little spot on the balcony, grumbling to himself about being a failure, about archers with dragon tattoos, and how Angela Ziegler is a god damn liar.

He coughs, harsh and loud, and spits the phlegm into a handkerchief. He growls to himself again, his stomach jolting oddly, and another craving kicks in. He pulls another Marlborough from its packet, and lights it.

He’s only had one draw when Mercy’s elegant voice is scolding him.

“Jesse, you absolutely _reek.”_

 _“_ Yeah, well, your shit ain’t helping, Angie. It’s fuckin’ useless, _no es_ _tá bien.”_

“You threw out the instructions, didn’t you?” She shakes her head, and leans against the railings next to him. He scowls.

“I know how to chew fuckin’ gum.”

“Nicotine gum is _different_ , Jesse. You don’t chew it like normal gum, you’re supposed to hold it between your teeth and cheek. Chewing it like regular gum only gives you a stomach ache and even worse cravings.”

Jesse sighs. Of _course_ it does. Somewhere in his head, Reyes scolds him.

_“Ziegler is a good doctor, **niño, muy bien**. You need to listen to her.”_

Jesse wants to tell the voice to piss off, but he feels like that might land him a night in the ward, so he remains silent, barking out another cough into his handkerchief.

There’s a moment of silence, and he opens his mouth to apologize, when-

“Jesse, let me see that.”

“Huh?” He frowns at Angela, confusion lining his features as he sees her concern.

“Your handkerchief. Pass it here.”

He hands it to her carefully, not wanting her to handle anything gross. But as she unfolds it, his eyes widen.

He’s been coughing up blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really sorry i haven't updated this fic in a long while but a lot of personal issues have come up, so i apologise!!!
> 
> gabe's spanish translations are:  
> the love is a lie  
> my son/my boy  
> boy   
> very good


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse McCree has never considered himself a lucky man. Whatever may have taken up residence in his lungs is just confirming that.

Angela has been in doctor mode for hours now, has been running tests on him all through the night, taking a sample here and there, and hushing McCree whenever he attempts to ask a question, or deny that there is anything wrong with him.

“Angie, sweetheart, there’s really-”

“Jesse McCree, if you dare to tell me that there is nothing wrong with you one more damn time, I will make these tests far more painful than they need to be.”

“… Remind me why the heck they call you 'Mercy'?”

Angela scoffs, busying herself with examining the results of Jesse’s throat swab.

“Do I need to summon Shimada-san down here to shut you up?”

Jesse shuts up.

He listens to the quiet whir of machines, examines the crisp white sheets of the bed he is seated upon, and wonders to himself when he last washed his own sheets. He wanders how many washes it would take to erase the sickly-sweet smell of nicotine, seeped into the cotton from the sweat of nightmares, followed by a cigarette to ease the stress.

Mercy has her hair down today. It falls just below her shoulders, the same shade of gold as the wheat farm back home.

Home.

How he longs for the heat and dust. For the smell of his mama’s cooking. The old family dog, Missy, that his cousin had named.  He sighs, the image of his mama fresh in his mind, the familiar freckles they shared across the bridges of their nose, and the same wild hair. Her threatening to tap his knuckles with the wooden spoon she wielded.

_“Aye, niño! Quit stealing mouthfuls, dinner will be ready soon!”_

Jesse smiles. But only briefly. He wonders if his mother would even recognise him now. Or if she could ever forgive him for joining the Deadlock gang.

Mercy mutters to herself, snapping Jesse out of his memories, and he struggles to cling to the smell of his mother’s cooking before it flees his mind.

“What was that Ange?” He asks, politely, trying not to get on the medic’s nerves. He’s seen what she can do with that pistol of hers.

“Oh,” She murmurs sheepishly, seeming as though she has been caught off guard, “I was just saying… Well…”

She hesitates, and Jesse waves it off.

“S’alright, Angie. Ya don’t have to.”

“No, no,” She smiles, but the corners of her mouth do not reach as high as normal, “It’s just, well, Gabriel had a similar issue once.”

“Gabe? Came to you for help?” Jesse can hardly believe it. The harsh nature of Blackwatch had changed him. Gabe didn’t trust anyone for help, barely even McCree himself.

“Only when it was too late,” Mercy rolls her eyes, “Stubborn old man had developed chronic bronchitis.”

He can’t help but smile at that. Gabe being too stubborn to ask for anything. Often asking Jesse to share whatever medication he had lying around. Never taking enough.

_“Don’t get dependant on that shit, McCree. It’ll fuck you right up, **niño.** ”_

“Jesse?”

He jolts back out of his memories, Gabriel Reyes heavy hand upon his shoulder fading fast.

“Sorry, Angie, what did you say?”

“I said, if we’re lucky, that’s what it might be. Acute bronchitis.”

“And if it’s not?”

Mercy affectionately brushes his hair out of his face, and shakes her head with a sigh.

“With all that blood? You could be looking at cancer, Jesse.”

\---

Cancer.

Jesse gazes out from the little balcony he has grown so accustomed to, turns his gaze to the stars, and wishes for his mother. He tries desperately to conjure up her image in his mind, but her face always blurs, or she has her back turned.

So, instead, he wishes for Ana.

Ana Amari, with those eagle eyes, hair so dark and an accent so thick. Harsh words of training, battle and demands, followed by the softer words of her healing, or the sting of her damned sleeping darts when Jesse was being a brat and pestering her to train him more, more, more.

Her comfort when she taught him that painful technique, her warnings and apologies when his eye bled the first time.

And her disappearance.

Jesse clutches at his chest with a metal fist, and whether it is regarding the pain in his lungs, or the dull ache in his heart, he is not sure.

“Watcha up to there, cowboy?”

Lena’s bubbly voice echoes from behind him, and he cannot bring himself to face her. He restrains the shakes that build from within him, longing to quake his shoulders and tear their way out through his throat in the form of desperate sobs. He swallows them back down.

“Just having a thought or two, Lena. You been looking for me?”

“Nope,” She chirps, “But Mercy has been. Says ya ran out on her or somethin’?”

Jesse can’t speak. His lungs burn, and he swallows thickly.

“Somethin’ like that, yep.” He attempts a laugh, but it wobbles, and Lena definitely picked up on that.

There’s a hand on his shoulder then.

Immediately he tenses up, his mind flashing to Reyes, and he inhales sharply as the image of Reye’s grip is torn away from him, replaced with Lena Oxton’s slender hand. He slumps against it, and she manoeuvres him so that he is facing her. He lowers his gaze, but she reaches under his chin, and lifts in up again.

“Jesse McCree. You talk to me this instant.”

And he tries.

But the words just won’t come out. They get stuck, jammed up in his broken lungs before they can even form, and he can’t. He cannot speak to Lena, and that’s how he knows how much this has truly ruined him. He tries so hard to speak.

“I…” He manages.

Only to collapse into the arms of Lena “Tracer” Oxton, and completely fall apart. He sobs against her, a dead weight, and Lena’s eyes are wide with shock, but she lets him fall apart. She hushes to him in English, and then a few words of garbled, broken Spanish that Jesse had attempted to teach her.

He only cries harder, Gabriel’s harsh growl of a voice in the back of his mind, insulting him, telling him to _grow up, get over it, McCree._

“I can’t, I’m sorry.” He chokes out, and he’s not sure if he’s talking to Lena, or Gabe.

\---

Angela tells him she wants to be thorough, when Lena finally convinces him to go see her again.

Lena smiles at him, and nods in understanding when Jesse asks her to leave them in private. Jesse doesn’t think she understands at all though.

Ziegler says that she wants to be thorough, make sure of whatever it is that Jesse may have, so the results may take a couple days. She hands him another paper bag, stamped with her logo and a paper receipt taped to the side.

“More supplies to help you quit,” She smiles weakly, “And some stuff that may help treat you. If we’re lucky.”

“If we’re lucky,” Jesse echoes, staring at the concoction of pills and liquids, “Yeah, right.”

He’s never been that lucky.

No arm.

No family.

No love.

But he doesn’t voice that. He thanks Angela, and leaves her to sleep. It’s gotten late. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep himself, and that thought is confirmed when he changes into his sweats and a flannel shirt for bed, only to feel not a hint of fatigue when he lies down. He gives up quickly, and pads silently down the hallway towards the kitchen.

He gives a brief wave to Hana and Lucio, her room door wide open and their faces illuminated by the screen of whatever video game she is engaging herself in. She offers back a grin and Lucio aims finger guns at him, before they return to their game.

He busies himself at the kettle, flipping the switch to boil the water, and locates a (somewhat) clean mug. He ruffles his hair with a sigh, and stretches out, listening to the symphony of his cracking joints.

He heaps coffee grounds into the mug, crooning an old country song to himself. He hits the chorus as the kettle clicks to signal him, and he raises his voice, singing of country roads to take him home, as he pours the water, and reaches over to an open bottle of whiskey, and pours a nip or two into his coffee.

He lowers his voice back to a hum as he leans in to take a sip.

“A song fit for a cowboy, hm, Jesse?”

He freezes mid-sip and swallows scalding coffee. He winces, and chuckles has he turns, hoping the flush is not overly evident across his cheeks.

“Hope I didn’t disturb you, Shimada-san.”

“You did not. And,” He offers quietly as he busies himself at the cupboard, “You may call me Hanzo.”

And despite the demon that may reside within his lungs, Jesse feels hope bubble up under his ribcage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry for the amount of time this update took!! university is wild x


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo Shimada is the first person Jesse tells.

They sit across from each other at the table, sipping their beverages. For minutes, no words are spoken, until Jesse clears his throat and Hanzo raises his eyes to give him his attention.

“So, uh,” He shifts uncomfortably, “I realised when we were in Angie’s office, you uh, don’t know that much about me.”

Hanzo pauses mid-sip, and hums his agreements.

“You are referring to your ‘past life’, I assume?”

Jesse nods and taps his knuckles against the warm ceramic mug in front of him. There’s a moment of silence as he tries to think of a light way to put this, before simply giving up.

“I road with a gang.”

There is almost no break in Hanzo’s, calm, schooled demeanour, but Jesse catches the way his hand stops for a split second while bringing his cup down to the table. He sighs.

“Which one?”

“Deadlock.” Jesse murmurs, keeping his gaze steady, searching for any subtle signs of distaste or shock.

But there are none. So, he continues.

“I was just a boy. Young ‘n’ foolish. Angry at the world for no good reason. So, I joined up. That’d be where I picked up the habit.”

He digs into the pocket of his old sweats, and tosses a packet of nicotine gum on the table for emphasis. Hanzo sips his tea and motions for Jesse to continue. He does, staring down at his reflection in the whiskey-coffee concoction. He’s a mess. But he continues.

“Overwatch wasn’t an immediate switch. And it ain’t always just been Overwatch. There was Blackwatch. Basically, the dirtier, harsher version, nothin’ but stealth and dirty work. They caught a handful of us Deadlock members. Got thrown in the lock up for a few days. Till Gabriel Reyes came to me with an offer I couldn’t refuse.” He snorts, repeating the offer he’d been given, “‘You can join up, or you can rot away here in this shithole, _niño.’”_

“And what did you do?” Hanzo presses, smiling somewhat at the unprofessional offer.

“Told him to fuck off, and a bunch of other nice words in Spanish.”

Hanzo laughs, a quiet chuckle, and Jesse swears he can feel it reverberate through his chest. He smiles back, but he can feel his eyes dampening slightly at the thought of Gabriel Reyes, and Jack Morrison. He restrains his tears however, he ain’t about to cry in front of Hanzo.

“Gabe was a pusher though. So, I ended up in Blackwatch, with a father figure in the least unlikely person. He was a harsh man, but he had heart. I saw a lot of unspeakable shit in my time at Blackwatch.” He hesitates before adding on, “ _Did_ unspeakable shit. But he was there, even if he went around it in a weird fuckin’ way.”

“And then?”

Jesse pauses at that. Opens his mouth to speak, but cannot. He remembers the conflict, the infighting, Reyes asking him to join, to revolt, _rebel,_ against a man that McCree had looked up to and Gabe himself had once _loved._ Where had everything gone so wrong?

For a moment, he swears he can feel the heat prickle across his skin, swears he can hear Gabe cursing and hear Morrison shouting commands as a building collapses and crumbles, swears his nostrils are breathing in burning air which tugs at his lungs like whatever demon may be living within. But then it’s gone. And he shakes his head and scoffs.

“And then everythin’ went to shit.”

He swallows the last of his coffee and replaces it with a splash of whiskey. Hanzo doesn’t push and Jesse is grateful for that. He can feel the man’s steel gaze upon him however, when he coughs harshly into a balled-up handkerchief.

“I still do not believe that you are merely suffering from a cold, Jesse.”

_There it is._

A confrontation Jesse was dreading. He inhales, but he can’t think of a quick-witted response. It doesn’t go unnoticed. But Hanzo waits, patiently, and Jesse sighs.

“No. No, I’m not.”

“You seem concerned. Surely with Dr Ziegler’s skills, there is no need…?”

Hanzo trails off, and Jesse can hear the slight tint of confusion to his words, perhaps even concern. He knows the only way to explain his concerns his to tell the whole story. And so, Hanzo Shimada is the first person he tells. Not Lena Oxton, not Fareeha Amari. Hanzo Shimada.

“Angela is a great medic. And we got all the equipment, sure. But, with, ah…” He swallows, hesitating. But he dives in, “With cancer, the healing process may not work correctly. It’s slow and painful. Lung cancer isn’t usually found till it’s too darn late. The bastard grows. Cuts, bullet holes, those things don’t shift and grow. The healing would be a constant battle between the cells dying off and mutating, to the regeneration of new ones. That’s how Angie puts it, anyway. So… Yeah.”

There’s silence. Jesse meets Hanzo’s eyes from across the table. For once, the elder Shimada’s composure has cracked. His hands are gripped tightly around his cup, and deep furrows have appeared between his brow.

“You have cancer. And it might not be curable. Is this what you are informing me, Jesse?”

“It’s only a maybe, sweetheart,” Jesse stumbles out with, and immediately wishing he could reel his words back in, “Shit, ah, sorry.”

There’s a thick pause, and Jesse can’t bring himself to look up in case he’s caused the man he likes to flee once again. But Hanzo speaks, voice low, and Jesse hears as the chair creaks as he motions to leave.

“Only a maybe. Focus on that, Jesse,” there’s a moment of hesitation and something in Hanzo’s voice shifts, “And… sweetheart is much better than _darling_.”

He scoffs the last bit, and Jesse’s head snaps up, but the elder Shimada has already vanished, elusive as ever. He grumbles as he feels his cheeks burn, and stares down at the amber liquid in his cup. Jesse McCree stares back.

He runs a hand through his shaggy hair, considers the freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose and cheeks and how they’ve seemingly vanished behind the red face that the elusive Hanzo Shimada gave to him as a parting gift.

For once, his chest does not ache like what he is used to. Not with the pain that he has become acquainted with, over years of smoking and fighting. But something else bubbles up inside of him.

“Only a maybe,” he murmurs to himself, cheeks red, lips turned up at the corner despite eyes being wet, “ _sweetheart.”_

 


End file.
